The Anger of the Sith
by Darth Ravius
Summary: It has been 200 years since the fall of Darth Krayt... The Jedi have grown complacent, fat in their peace. They have robbed us True Sith of our Empire once. It is time to return the favour...
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: Star Wars belongs to LucasArts.**

**Hey all, I've finally worked up the energy to sign up to . Been reading stories for a while, but haven't published any. Here's one that I've had in my head for a while. I'd like some advice on the format, etc, and also some aid concerning the functions of the website if any problems arise.**

**This is set approximately 200 years after the reign of Darth Krayt. I developed the storyline the better part of a year before Star Wars: The Old Republic was announced. I'm trying to incorporate the events revealed so far into the history, but I'll probably keep it obscure just for canon's sake.**

PROLOGUE

The Sith lord was lying in the snow, the pieces of a collapsed building surrounding him. The white substance had fallen on him, sparing him from the atrocity of his mangled legs. Below the waist, he felt numb. The only way he knew something was wrong, was that the white of the snow was marred by a sickeningly bright red. A red that was growing, would encompass the purity of the snow.

His mind was drained, exhausted. He felt no joy, no pain, no anger. Nothing. Simply a grim resignation to death. His peers had always said he was pensive, withdrawn, _passive_. The latter term was an insult, not thrown about lightly, highly damaging to a Sith's honour.

He didn't care.

Through the ringing din in his ears, he discerned footsteps crunching in the snow, approaching. _Boots_, his finely-tuned senses told him. That could only mean one thing.

_Jedi._

The term itself was a mockery, a deluded, weakened term, applied by these rebelling Sith lords to themselves to try to give justification to their cause. They knew nothing of the ancient Jedi ways, those Jedi, far off, talked about in legends. They practised the Dark Side with the same avidity as their more conformist brethren, but proved ill-satisfied by their teachers.

The 'Jedi' paused in front of the fallen Sith, a sneer distorting further distorting his hideous features. At his hip were several lightsabers, mementos of his fallen foes.

"Sith scum. How do you enjoy the snow?"

The Sith said nothing, merely spat at the leering man.

The man took a step backwards, snarling. He activated his lightsaber, swiftly impaling the Sith Lord's shoulder.

"Knave! Bow to your masters, so you may die in peace!"

"No peace will be afforded to you, fool. You and your cause will die. The Council will convene. You will be destroyed." The Sith lord said, in a deep, menacing baritone.

The Jedi smirked. "How wrong you are. Joptis is ours. Your troops are dead, scattered. What else can you do?"

The Sith lord felt unfamiliar muscles twitch, then realized he was smiling.

"What do you smile about, wretch?"

"The fact that the next time we meet, it will be on more... _equal_ terms."

The Jedi snarled, then raised his lightsaber for a beheading strike...

The red energy lances of the orbiting Sith cruiser vaporized the city, leaving nothing but a glowing crater as evidence that structures had once existed there. The Sith lords life sign noiselessly faded away on the dashboard, containing vital signs. More quickly followed, as battle continued to rage on the planet. And so it continued, life signs fading away, until none remained.

The planet Joptis was no more.

**Only a prologue, setting the mood. The reason for the fighting will be revealed next chapter, as well as the major players. Please leave a review! Thanks.**


	2. Bureacracy never dies

Chapter 1

A senate building, no matter what culture, no matter what place, will always look the same. A pervasive atmosphere of bureaucracy and officialdom fills the buildings, the smothering feeling of sheer red tape always repressing. Sumptuous mobile platforms, seats for the politicians, arranged in concentric circles. All arranged around the hierarch, the spider in the web.

In this case, The Emperor.

Origins shrouded in mystery, as all good leaders are, the Emperor was rumoured to be over a thousand years old. Scholars thought that he was a survivor of the ancient Cold War, where the Sith had been so thoroughly defeated, after near-certain victory, by the Jedi. He then discovered many secrets of Sith alchemy, prolonging his life, encasing himself in a massive life-support unit, black and menacing, and slowly rebuilt the Sith Empire in the unknown regions, studiously avoiding contact with the Republic.

The Sith Empire had grown large; spanning over a hundred worlds, a navy over a two million ships strong, constantly patrolling. The Sith Academy kept the apprentices happy, barring the recent insurrection. The law enforcement was heavy-handed when necessary; the mechanics of crowd control was well-known to them. The military-a massive force of elite troops, led on the most part by Sith lords and Mandalorians, of the quasi-independent Mandalorian colony of Hetrea.

The Emperor brooded in his alcove, raised above the other platforms, the cameras that allowed him to see from his black throne spying on the Sith lords below. Each camera was endowed with the dark side, which registered on the Force-sensitive as a continuous and irritating push. Thus, all of his subjects constantly felt harassed, under scrutiny. Less inclined to make mistakes.

Sometimes, listening to the banter of the Sith lords, he felt tempted to mute the speakers, or, even better, wipe their minds, and keep them as mindless pets. But, he admitted, albeit begrudgingly to himself, he needed them for the administration of his empire. Each Sith lord was assigned a quadrant and a section of the military, so each had his own fiefdom. Each lord could arrange the fiefdom as he wished, albeit within certain limits. Thus, optimum administrative capacities could be attained.

Turning the vast power of his mind to the conversation, he heard the familiar sounds of the hot-headed Lord Melchet roaring at the deceptively calm Lord Ravius, the elusive Mandalorian Sith lord, the youngest member of the council, and probably the most dangerous to his position. Many times, the Emperor had considered having Ravius assassinated, but always relegated his plans to the a distant point in the future when Ravius showed his brilliance and usefulness, which was almost every day. Now, the two lords were arguing about the ongoing 'Jedi' insurrection, and the massacre of Joptis.

"The orbital bombardment of Joptis proved effective! All rebel forces were annihilated!" roared Melchet.

"So were all civilians and troops garrisoned on the planet. A highly expensive method of victory, Melchet. Shall we sacrifice our empire to destroy a few disgruntled apprentices?" Ravius replied, calmly. "I propose a systematic, land-based offensive against all known rebel bases, with ample orbital support. But not," he paused, tilting his helmeted head at Melchet, "With several giga-hertz lasers."

His adversary laughed harshly. "A land-based offensive? Has it not been proven ineffective by Lord Kendrath's offensive on Laltae?"

The council murmured assent. Kendrath had lost his troops and his life in that ill-fated assault.

Ravius slowly shook his head. "He attacked a heavily fortified base, with an orbiting fleet of armed merchant freighters, with a small navy and only the garrison immediately available to him. He was rash, and an inept commander." He turned to face the Emperor's throne.

"Give me the permission to reclaim Laltae, my liege, and I shall. Only my military, my Mandalorian commandos, and my sith beasts."

Melchet rose from his chair, face red with anger, before being thrown back into the black suede cushions with overwhelming force.

"Melchet." Warned the Emperor, in his booming, deep, grating voice. "Ravius shall lead the assault. But, the consequences shall be your own. No reinforcements from other divisions. Should you lose, you lose your men. Not mine. And retreat is forbidden. You stay until either you, or the enemy, is dead."

Ravius nodded, then pulled on his black hood over his reddish-grey mandalorian mask, vaguely reminiscent of Revan's, the empire's bogeyman, and glided out of the room with a swish of his robes.

_I shan__'t fail you, Emperor._


End file.
